


Against the Wind

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fluff, Gen, Gift Fic, M/M, Magic!AU, Magic!John, Snogging, Winterlock Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 16:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John does magic. Sherlock pretends it doesn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Against the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> This is my gift for theproductiveprocrastinator in the Winterlock Exchange. Their request included fluff, and mentioned a love of AUs, especially potter!lock. This isn't quite that, but hopefully the magic works! I hope you enjoy it!

Sherlock is a chemist and a detective; he’s a scientist, and he rejects things beyond the ken of science. There are very few things that science cannot explain, in his experience, very few things that do not fall under its purview, and they are mostly things of the imagination. Flights of fancy, fairy tales and stories, silliness.

Science cannot explain John Watson. 

Sometimes, Sherlock wonders if he would be nearly as fascinated with his John as he is, were he more easily explained.

That’s the thing, though. On the surface, John _is_ easily explained. He is a fairly simple man, with simple tastes and awful jumpers and a wonderful sense of humor. 

And yet. There’s more to John Watson than meets the eye. Sherlock discovered that nearly as soon as they met when John shot a man for him, across an impossible distance, with a handgun. 

Sherlock found more than that, even, when he discovered that John does magic.

Which is ridiculous, and impossible. It’s not even improbable, it’s just plain impossible.

And yet. It happens. It happens pretty much constantly.

\----

Sherlock does his best to ignore it. It just doesn’t make sense, John’s magic. He has no explanation for it, it doesn’t compute. It confuses him. So he pretends he doesn’t see it, even when he does, although that isn’t very often. John’s magic is subtle, and simple; easy to miss, easy to write off most of the time. 

He pretends that John doesn’t occasionally make tea from across a room, just as perfect when he’s doing it from his chair as when he gets up and does it physically. And he pretends he didn’t huff and shout about skewed results and the impossibility of accounting for magic in his that time John prevented his experiment from, uh, exploding. He pretends that sometimes, when they’re caught in a downpour, neither of them gets wet. And he pretends that the dishes don’t do themselves (although that one is by far the easiest to ignore).

So he ignores it. Sherlock ignores all of it, except on those rare occasions he has to shout at John about it.

Which, as it turns out, amuses John to no end.

\----

The case is barely a four; Sherlock tears through it in a matter of minutes, and tears through forensics and Lestrade and everyone else his eyes fall upon, right up until he turns and sees John looking at him.

Just looking at him, with his eyebrows raised and his arms crossed, and it utterly deflates Sherlock’s promising-to-be-epic strop.

Sherlock sighs. He turns back to Lestrade, who is now staring at him, slightly agape, and rattles off his deductions as quickly as he can.

There. Done.

Sherlock glances at John as he sweeps past, and has to look away, lest he give in to the urge to smile, the urge to laugh that John’s smiling eyes inspire in him.

John’s done that for ages, ever since the night they met, inspired laughter in him, and he doesn’t know how. Sherlock’s never met someone that makes him laugh the way John does. He wonders, sometimes, if he does it with magic, but he doesn’t believe that to be true. He can’t believe that to be true; John isn’t like that.

Sometimes, it makes him want to kiss John.

OK, most of the time it makes him want to kiss John.

There’s not much that doesn’t make him want to kiss John these days, actually.

It’s an issue.

\----

It starts as a breeze, as he’s walking away from the crime scene, ruffling his hair lightly. It smells clean and sweet, the way the air of London rarely smells. It reminds him of the cottage where the family had spent summers when he was a boy, before his father died and things went sour.

It grows as he continues, until it’s flaring his coat out behind him, and Sherlock turns his collar up against what is now a sweet-smelling wind.

John’s laughter follows him as he walks away, and Sherlock will never admit to the bit of swagger the sound of it adds to his step.

\----

He thinks about it the whole way back to Baker Street, the wind that John had called, to ruffle his hair and flair his coat. He thinks about it and wonders what it could mean, what it signifies, that John uses magic on him to make him look dramatic, to remind him of his childhood.

John watches him in the cab, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and says nothing. But he’s sitting closer than usual, and Sherlock can feel the heat of him like he’s sat next to a roaring fire.

\----

“Why?” he asks, just inside the flat.

John slips out of his coat and hangs it up. When he turns back to Sherlock, he’s smiling. Still smiling, he shrugs, and then chuckles.

“You’re a ridiculous man,” is all he offers by way of explanation.

“That doesn’t make any sense. You called a wind just to--what? What?”

John is laughing, now, and Sherlock glares, hands on hips. 

When he finally stops laughing, when Sherlock hasn’t joined in, John looks at him for a moment, impossible fondness in his eyes, and then says, “Come here.” 

He reaches up and drags Sherlock down with a hand on the back of his beck, five fingers pressed into his skin, five points of contact between them, five flames licking up his neck and into his brain, presses their lips together. Sherlock makes a noise of surprise, and his brain shouts “oh!” all at once, and then he sinks in, allows John in, parts his lips beneath John’s and kisses him back.

Everything goes clear and crystalline his mind. Sherlock understands, all of a sudden, _why_ John is kissing him. He understands why John called the wind to ruffle his hair, and he feels it again, like a caress. Or perhaps that is just John’s hand stroking down his back.

John _cares_ , he cares so much. He trusts Sherlock, and he cares for him. He takes care of Sherlock, and he wants to be kissing Sherlock right now.

And Sherlock wants to be kissing John. And that’s less of an issue than Sherlock had thought.


End file.
